


Everybody Wants Finch

by Fringuello, Lisagarland, merionees, MulaSaWala, Zaniida



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-24 13:24:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17705072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fringuello/pseuds/Fringuello, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisagarland/pseuds/Lisagarland, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merionees/pseuds/merionees, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulaSaWala/pseuds/MulaSaWala, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: Somehow or other, Finch becomes the target of a bunch of people all on the same day.





	1. Morning Vengeance (Fringuello)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the Valentine's Day project for 2019! Five participants signed up: three writers and two artists. I (Zaniida) expect to do a lot of formatting work on Lisagarland's chapter, but otherwise I'm not messing too much with what chapters that aren't mine. Hope you enjoy what we come up with!
> 
> (Also, it's totally meant to be over-the-top.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold Wren encounters a face from his recent past.

  
  


“Where are you off to on this fine Valentine’s Day morning, Harold?” asked Reese, raising his napkin to wipe the remaining traces of eggs Benedict from his lips. Ever since Finch had recommended the dish, Reese had regularly ordered it when the two of them ate at the diner.

“Well, given that we have an unexpected free day, there are various errands I should attend to,” replied his partner, folding his own napkin and placing it back on the table in the booth where the two men were sitting. “Some tasks necessary for maintaining cover identities can’t be completed via computer.” 

“In particular?” Reese queried.

“There’s mail to pick up, and paperwork that needs to be submitted in person. But mainly, Harold Wren needs to spend a little time in the office at Universal Heritage.”

Reese considered. “I suppose that it wouldn’t hurt for John Warren to put in an appearance at Pebler Wright as well.”

“Good idea,” replied Finch, tipping his cup of tea in Reese’s direction. “It’s been a while. You should probably stop in at Warren’s apartment, too.”

“I will.” Reese took another sip of coffee. “Assuming that the Machine doesn’t interrupt us with a Number, when do you think you’ll be back in the library?”

Finch glanced at his watch. “I’m hoping that three hours should do it, so perhaps 10:30?”

“Sounds good,” Reese nodded. “Shall we say that whoever returns first takes Bear out for his walk? It’s a lovely day to spend some time in the park.”

“That’s acceptable, though not completely equitable. You don’t have as many identities to maintain.”

“And whose choice was that?” said Reese, smirking. “Anyway, you’re welcome to join us, if we haven’t already finished by the time that you get back.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively at Finch.

Harold’s eyes narrowed. “Then I had better get started right now.” He slid out and rose from his seat, but raised his hand as Reese began to do likewise. “Oh no, Mr. Reese, I wouldn’t dream of depriving you. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the rest of your coffee.” Tossing a fifty dollar bill onto the table, he buttoned his suit jacket, then turned and departed the diner. Reese leaned back in the booth and smiled broadly as he watched Finch walk out the door into the sunshine of the unseasonably warm day.

* * *

Finch’s phone rang as he was riding in a taxi headed to the post office. The call was for Harold Wren, which was puzzling, since he’d already informed his executive assistant that he would arrive at the office within the hour. Tapping his earwig, he responded. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wren, but something has come up, and I thought it was best to let you know immediately.” Harold noted that his assistant did sound truly regretful.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You received a call from a Mr. Dean Rafferty.” She sighed. “Actually, you’ve received _three_ calls from him already this morning. He’s the man who contacted you just last week, insisting that he needed a policy immediately for his new accounting firm.”

“I remember,” Harold confirmed. “Didn’t we tell him that we would need him to complete the required paperwork before we could even begin the records check?”

“We did. And he hasn’t turned in anything yet. But he was frantic when he called this morning. He said he has a line on an office suite that he wants to rent for the business, but the building’s owner won’t even consider him with his insurance situation up in the air.”

“And what does he expect us to do about it?”

“He seems to think that if you showed up personally, that would be enough to persuade the owner to let him sign the lease.”

Harold frowned. “Does he realize that there is no guarantee that we will actually choose to issue him a policy?”

“He says he understands. He was practically begging for you to show up by 8:30. Evidently the building’s owner is there now, but plans to leave soon.”

Harold thought quickly. He hadn’t counted on this interruption to his morning tasks, but it seemed that the simplest procedure would be to take care of this annoyance immediately, rather than to leave it hanging over his head. And if Harold Wren met this potential client, he could minimize the time that he had to actually spend in the Universal Heritage office. If he was lucky, he could swing by the post office later and still return to the library by 10:30.

“All right, you can call him and tell him I’ll meet with him as soon as I can get there. What’s the address?”

* * *

Harold exited the elevator on the 29th floor of the building where Rafferty intended to set up his office and walked down the hall until he reached the suite that Rafferty had identified. Upon entering, he discovered that the desk in front of him was unoccupied. Turning to his right, he noted an inner office door that sat ajar. “Hello?” he called out. “I’m Harold Wren.”

“Come on in,” a voice replied. Harold walked over to the door, pushing it open as he walked through, dimly aware of a shadow to his left. Before he had taken three steps into the room, he was jerked back by a pair of hands and pulled tightly against a body behind him. “Wha—” was all he managed to say before a powerful arm snaked tightly around his throat, the constriction bringing on a bout of coughing.

“Take it easy, Mr. Wren. You wouldn’t want to hurt yourself.”

Harold felt a sharp prick on the right side of his neck. _A hypodermic needle?_ His mind flashed back to his captivity at the hands of Root and the blithe matter-of-factness with which she had plunged a needle into his neck. _No, not this again!_ Panicking, he began to hyperventilate as he struggled, unsuccessfully, to free himself.

“Relax. I just need you to take a nice little nap,” the voice said. Harold could feel the man’s breath tickling his ear. Desperately, he tried to reach into his pocket for his phone, but couldn’t seem to control his shaking arms. All he could do was wait, listen to his captor’s breathing, and mentally tick down the minutes that passed as, slowly, his eyes began to blur and his head began to swim. Finally, his muscles turned to jelly and he sagged in the grip of his attacker. He could feel himself being dragged and seated in a chair; as he began to roll forward, he realized that he must be in a wheelchair. Then he blacked out.

* * *

Slowly, Harold began to regain consciousness, feeling extremely woozy; as he raised his head, he winced at a sharp flash of pain in his neck. Blinking furiously, he attempted to clear his vision, but everything around him remained misty. He tried to lift his hand to rub his eyes, but some sort of restraint was holding both wrists in place.

“I’m glad to see you’re finally waking up, Mr. Wren. I know the sensation is not pleasant, but believe me, it’s better than being punched in the carotid artery.”

 _What?_ thought Harold. _Carotid artery? What on earth is that about?_ He was gradually beginning to recover his equilibrium, and his eyes were starting to focus, but he still couldn’t quite make out the face of the man in front of him. Fumblingly, he tried to maneuver his right hand, attempting to reach into the pocket of his suit jacket, then realized he wasn’t wearing it any more.

“If you’re looking for your phone, forget it. I’ve destroyed it, along with your earpiece.”

“What is going on here?” demanded Harold, in as frosty a tone as he could manage as he continued to emerge from his drugged slumber. Fuzzily looking around at his surroundings, he realized that his captor must have transported him to a new location; he was still seated in the wheelchair, but now he was in a room that must be on the ground floor, if he had correctly deduced that the shadows passing by the shaded windows were pedestrians.

“Justice,” replied his captor.

 _I’m sure I’ve heard that voice before_ , Harold thought, _but I can’t quite place it._

“You see, I’ve run into some difficulties, and ultimately, you’re the man responsible for all of them.”

“I’ve never even met you, Mr. Rafferty,” said Harold, with as much sternness as he could muster.

The man chuckled unpleasantly. “Oh, my name’s not Rafferty. That was a ruse to bring you to me, Mr. Wren. I tried finding my way to you, but you were just too elusive.”

Harold blinked a few times, his vision finally clearing as he peered at the man sitting at a desk in front of him. Broad face, silver-gray hair, glasses. The last time that he had seen that face, it had worn a look of terrified bewilderment. “Dr. Carmichael?” he said, astonished.

Carmichael nodded. “That’s right. I wanted to personally thank you for bringing your niece, Robin Farrow, to my hospital. She proved to be quite an interesting patient.” Leaning forward, he folded his hands together and rested his chin on them. “How is she, by the way?”

Harold swallowed nervously. “She’s much better now.”

Carmichael smiled menacingly. “That’s wonderful. Would you like to know how _I’m_ doing?”

Harold could only nod in reply. The safest course of action was to keep Carmichael talking as long as possible. Given the circumstances, there was not much more he could do.

Carmichael sighed. “I’m afraid I’m not doing well at all. You see, I was fired from my job.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“The administrators were not happy about what happened at the hospital. Shattered glass doors, bullet holes in the walls, destroyed records—that all cost money to clean up. But do you know what cost even more?”

Harold shook his head.

“Paying off the staff and security employees so they wouldn’t sue the hospital for being dosed with Desflurane through the ventilation system.”

Suddenly, a car backfired just outside the window; Carmichael jerked his head toward the window in alarm and began panting rapidly. Tensely, Harold watched as the doctor clenched and unclenched his fists, then began to take deep, slow breaths as he struggled to control his fear.

A few minutes later, he had calmed himself sufficiently to turn his attention back to Harold. “The administrators decided that everything was my fault. They blamed me for not realizing that Robin was so dangerous that she needed to be restrained at all times.” He paused a moment, drumming the fingers of his left hand on the desk. “They said I made a huge mistake in my diagnosis and treatment. So they fired me, and they’re suing me for malpractice.”

Harold listened to the doctor's litany in stunned silence, watching as his face reddened with anger.

“But really, it’s your fault,” Carmichael seethed, pointing his finger at Finch. “You told me that she was detached from reality; that she was hearing voices. You never told me how dangerous she was.”

Harold licked his lips. “I didn’t believe that she posed any danger to you; only to herself.”

Carmichael laughed bitterly. “Really? So tell me, why did you show up at the hospital almost at midnight? And why did you happen to arrive immediately after she had shot a man and made her escape?”

Harold’s mouth dropped open, but he remained mute. _What can I possibly say? There's no explanation I can give him._

Carmichael stood up. “You put my life at risk. And now I can’t even walk down the street without worrying that some crazed maniac is going to pop up and start shooting at me.” He reached over to an open medical bag that was sitting on a corner of the desk, pulled it close and reached inside. “So now you’re going to pay.”

Harold’s eyes widened in alarm. “What are you going to do?”

The doctor pulled out a syringe. “I’m going to make sure you experience what I have to deal with. The fear that I live with every day.” He walked around the desk to Harold. “She hurt me. And now I’m going to hurt you.” Setting down the syringe, he removed the cufflink at Harold’s left wrist, letting it fall to the floor, and pushed up the sleeve past the elbow. Grinning at Harold, he picked up the syringe again, tightly gripping his victim’s arm and preparing to inject him.

Trembling, Harold steeled himself against the horror of what was about to happen. Suddenly, a window shattered and glass sprayed into the room. Carmichael cried out in fear, dropped the syringe, and collapsed, cowering on the floor beside the desk. A bristling Malinois brushed the window shade aside and dashed into the room, followed by a tall, dark figure, Sig Sauer in hand. Growling a threat, Bear rushed over to the doctor and positioned his powerful jaws inches from the man’s throat. Carmichael sank back in terror.

“Mr. Reese!” Harold gasped in relief.

Reese stopped at Harold’s chair and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, turning his head enough to cast a concerned look at his partner, while keeping his gun trained on the quivering doctor. “Are you all right, Harold?”

Harold quickly bobbed his head up and down, immediately regretting the action, which exacerbated the pain in his neck. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” he gulped. “Thankfully, you arrived just before he was able to give me an injection.” He leaned forward to indicate the syringe that had fallen on the floor.

“Injection?” Reese’s jaw tightened as he placed his gun in the back waistband of his pants. He leaned down and picked up the syringe from the floor. “What was he going to inject you with?”

Harold took a breath. His heart rate was slowing now that John was here to protect him, and he found he was able to speak calmly. “I’m not precisely certain, but I believe it was a drug intended to cause hallucinations, or perhaps paranoia. Unfortunately, the incident with Robin at Stone Ridge disturbed Dr. Carmichael’s mental equilibrium. He wanted me to have that same experience.”

An expression of pure menace spread over John’s face and he stepped toward Carmichael. “Bear. _Ga naar_ Harold.” The dog stopped growling, walked over to Harold, and sat down next to his chair. Reese leaned down close to the doctor, whose trembling increased in intensity at the rage evident in the tall man’s face. “I think it’s time to give you a taste of your own medicine, doctor,” said Reese, in a deceptively calm tone of voice. He held up the syringe right in front of Carmichael’s nose.

The doctor shivered. “ _No!_ ” he cried, thrusting both his hands high in entreaty. “ _Please! Don’t!_ ”

“John,” said Harold, with quiet authority. “Stop. You know we can’t do that.”

“Why not?” John barked.

“Because that’s not what we do. He needs help, not punishment. And we do bear some responsibility for his condition.”

John looked back at his partner and huffed in disapproval, but finally, grudgingly, set down the syringe on the desk. “ _Fine._ ” He reached down to grab the doctor by his shoulders and pull him roughly to his feet. Uncertainly, the doctor looked up at the larger man. “But that’s not gonna stop me from doing this.” Still clutching the doctor’s shoulder with his left hand, Reese pulled back his other arm and delivered a right cross to Carmichael’s jaw, powerful enough to knock him out.

“Mr. Reese.” Disapproval oozed out of Finch, who was glaring at his partner.

Reese shrugged, completely unrepentant. “We couldn’t have him listening to our plans on what to do with him.” He loosened his grip and unceremoniously dropped the unconscious doctor to the floor. Turning to face Finch, he asked “What _are_ we going to do with him?”

Harold shook his head, but decided that further scolding was pointless. “I’ll arrange for my lawyers to settle his legal issues. But, most importantly, he needs the assistance of mental health professionals. That’s the only way he’ll ever recover. I’m afraid we are going to have to commit him to a facility.”

“Not one in the city, I hope.”

“No . . . I think it would be prudent if we were to relocate him several states away. When I was researching a long term situation for Ms. Groves, I found an impressive clinic in Georgia. That should work. If you will give me your phone, I can commence the admission process.”

Reese nodded. “Just let me call Fusco first.” He tapped his phone. “Hello, Lionel. I have a package that I need you to come and pick up. Harold is making arrangements for a transport out of state.” A sardonic smile came over his face as he listened to Fusco’s reply. “Actually, I _have_ always thought that you should be driving a taxi, Lionel,” he said, smoothly. “We’re in Queens—171st Street, number 92.” He listened to the detective’s reply for a moment before ending the call.

“Fusco’s in the neighborhood,” he announced. “He said he’d be here shortly.” He handed the phone to Harold, who raised his eyebrows quizzically, then pointedly looked down at his right hand.

John grinned. “You haven’t learned to undo restraints yet, Harold? I’ll have to keep that in mind.” He pulled out his knife and cut the older man loose.

Harold shot him a quick glare of annoyance as he cautiously rose from the wheelchair, swaying for a moment until he found his balance. “Please wipe off the armrests; I’ve left fingerprints all over them.” John pulled out a handkerchief and quickly obliged, while Harold pulled his sleeve back down into place. “Can you locate my cufflink? It’s on the floor somewhere, probably near the desk.” 

John scanned the floor until he spotted the cufflink, which he picked up and passed to his partner. “Anything else?”

“Please retrieve my suit jacket. It’s sitting over there on the floor,” replied Harold nodding his head toward the window as he refastened his cufflink.

John grabbed the jacket, shook out the glass shards that had landed on it, and held it out for Harold to place his arms in the sleeves. “Do you need to go to Universal Heritage?” he asked, as his partner adjusted the collar and buttoned the jacket.

Harold shook his head. “I think Harold Wren is going to call it a day.”

The door opened and Fusco stepped in, taking a quick look at the debris scattered in the room. “Should’ve known that was you who broke the window. Some reason you couldn’t come in through the door?”

Ignoring Fusco’s comment, John indicated the doctor, still lying unconscious on the floor. “He’s all yours, Lionel. We’re even leaving you a wheelchair to move him with.”

Fusco rolled his eyes. “Thanks a lot.”

“Don’t mention it,” Reese smirked. “Oh, and see to it that the medical bag and syringe are destroyed.” Placing his hand on Finch’s back, he ushered his partner out of the room, Bear falling into place on Harold’s opposite side.


	2. Afternoon Cruise (Zaniida)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surely he couldn't be kidnapped twice in the same day... right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Also, one chapter has ballooned up into two, which is... hardly unexpected, given that it's me.
> 
> Sigh.
> 
> Still, I love how this is turning out! Nummies ^.^

“Mr. Reese, I’m _fine_ ,” Harold protested, when Reese tried to follow him out to the bus stop.

“Not two hours ago,” Reese growled, “you got kidnapped and drugged by a madman.”

Harold straightened up, ignoring the twinge in his back. “And how often do _you_ merely walk off some nearly lethal wound? Yes, my neck hurts a bit more than normal, but the dizzy spell has passed, and, thanks to your timely rescue, he never got a chance to do anything worse to me. We can’t be bringing our lives to a halt every time something untoward happens; we’d never get anything done.”

“I thought you said Harold Wren was going to call it a day?”

“As I _also_ said, you don’t have as many identities to maintain as I do. Wren is just the first of several that I’ll be updating today. We don’t often have a day off, and I’m hardly going to waste it.”

“Look, Finch—”

“Honestly, Mr. Reese. I’ve got work to do. _You’ve_ got work to do; Bear still needs his walk, after all that excitement. You’ve already dealt with Dr. Carmichael and seen to my physical safety; I can’t imagine that another incident is likely to occur.”

“You know, I still can’t fully trust the Machine like I used to, but I’d feel a lot happier if it were keeping an eye on you. There’s no way Carmichael knew to stay out of the cameras, so the Machine had to have known that he was coming after you—”

“And I’ve specifically told it not to consider my safety a priority. I realize, Mr. Reese, that you’re concerned for me—all the more reasonable, given the unexpected loss of Detective Carter—but this is not a particularly safe line of work that we’ve chosen. The precautions we take, like the tracker you put in my glasses, those will have to do; I won’t have the Machine’s powers bent toward personal protection.” He sighed. “Besides, for all my protests, I’m sure that it guards me anyway. I suspect that the only reason it didn’t give us my number this morning is that it judged the threat to be non-lethal… or figured that you’d get there in time. That, or it understood that telling you I’m in danger would lead to a wholly unwarranted level of paranoid action.”

Reese opened his mouth, then snapped it shut; that last part was obvious to the both of them. When things got serious, all his training came to the forefront, and, in this case, it would certainly have been overkill.

“So you’re going to get on with your day,” Harold concluded, “and I’m going to get on with mine. I have a bus to catch in”—he checked his phone—“three minutes. And tonight, around dinnertime, we’ll meet back up in the library so you can convince your system that I’m safe and sound and nothing bad has happened to me. Feel free to order some comfort food for the both of us. But I’m not going to stay in panic mode over a single incident; are we clear?”

Reese didn’t look happy about it, but he knew Harold at his more stubborn moods, and stopped arguing.

* * *

For the next couple of hours, Harold moved about the city, taking less time with each identity than he normally would, but at least getting the basics out of the way. Despite his protests, he _had_ been rattled by the attack, but what Reese failed to grasp was that one of Harold’s ways of dealing with things outside his control was by moving through his day with as much normality as he could manage. It was the same way that he took charge of his pain, by dressing (and acting) as though pain didn’t exist; some days were harder than others, but he could also count on the physical and mental comfort of a freshly laundered three-piece suit with properly coordinated pocket square.

The clock had just edged past noon when he stopped to get a cup of tea and check his phone for his partner's whereabouts. As expected, Reese was on his tail, a mere two blocks away; Harold sighed, feeling a mixture of irritation and endearment over how protective the man had become. But, honestly, did Reese expect Harold to get kidnapped twice in one day?

…of course he did. Didn’t mean it was a reasonable assumption.

Sighing again, Harold shook his head and started limping down the street, mentally building up his Mr. Gull identity, to the point where it even changed the cadence of his walk; this afternoon was a good time to make a quick appearance at the Storm Chasers club, maybe make a little fuss about—

The van he’d been paying no attention to opened up right next to him, and before he could even step to the side there were hands on his arm and a black hood slipped down quick over his head. As his stomach dropped—why hadn’t he noticed, why hadn’t he been more careful?—he was pulled bodily into the van, giving a muffled cry at the tension on his already sore back and shoulders, and pushed into a seat, his flailing arms grabbed by the wrist and quickly secured with a zip tie as someone else buckled him in, the shoulder belt awkwardly across his arm and digging up into his neck.

They hadn’t taken his phone, but there was no way to access it now. But John was only a couple of blocks away—surely he’d catch up before—

As the van pulled out and merged into traffic, that hope seemed a little more distant; it was hard enough for John to track people with Harold in his ear, directing him along the best paths and keeping track of where his quarry went. John didn’t know which vehicle Harold was in, what it looked like, and if he tried to drive and follow the tracker at the same time, he might well end up in a collision. The likelihood of John catching up to him before they got… wherever they were going…

And where _was_ that, anyway? What did they want from him now? Was this connected to Dr. Carmichael? Was it Decima, or Vigilance, or the government? Surely not Elias—Elias didn’t need to blindfold him, or kidnap him for that matter—but possibly another gang, for any of a dozen reasons: things he’d done, things he knew, people he was connected with. Did they want him dead? Want to use him as leverage? Want access to the Machine, or other information he had secreted away?

For twenty long minutes, he got to mull over the possibilities, without enough information to rule out anything significant; the van moved in stops and starts, obviously dealing with heavy traffic, but it didn’t turn much. And then the sound changed, to lighter traffic, and then again, as though they were going underground. Lincoln Tunnel? But surely that would have _more_ traffic, not less.

His stomach bottomed out again when he heard the deep sound of horns. They were at the docks—some sort of dock. They were going to take him on a boat. If Reese wasn’t right on their tail, they’d be gone before he could reach them… and what good would it do him to have trackers in his glasses and his phone if they were out at sea?

What were they going to do with him, out at sea? Someplace far from civilization, so they could torture him where no one could hear him scream, where no one could rescue him? Surely this wasn’t just transport, unless they were… was this the Chinese government, after his secrets again? As the van rolled across a ramp and into the bowels of a ship, he started to breathe faster, the black hood stifling him with the heat of his own breath. He could feel tears leaking out of his eyes, and couldn’t even wipe them away.

As the car settled, he could make out—barely, over his own hyperventilation and the sounds of the water and the ship itself—a woman’s voice, getting closer and going up in pitch and volume.

“—the hell did you think I meant for you to kidnap him, you absolute _moron?!_ ”

There was something oddly familiar about the shrill outrage, but Harold hadn’t managed to place it until the van rocked with some additional weight and the hood suddenly came off and he was blinking, squint-eyed, into the face of Sabrina Drake.

“ _Knife_ ,” she all but spat, reaching out toward the men who’d evidently been his kidnappers, and when one of them complied and she snatched it from him, Harold flinched. But Sabrina was merely cutting off the zip tie, and then she snapped the knife closed and chucked it back at the men. “There,” she said with a huff. “ _Honestly_. This is hardly the way to start a relaxing cruise.”

Harold didn’t know what to say to that.

“Come on, Mr. Crane,” she said, getting out of the van and offering him a neatly manicured hand. “Ugh. I’m never working with _this_ company ever again.”

“Ah… uh… what?” he managed, but got out of the van, and got his first look around. A… cruise ship? It was much larger than he had imagined, from within the confines of his hood, but they were parked in some lower deck, something like where cars parked on a ferry. Just as he was getting his bearings, the van pulled out; he looked after it with a mix of bewilderment— _don’t leave me here_ , which was ridiculous, and where even—

“Well, are you coming?” she asked, heading across the lanes. “I’ll explain everything once we’re a bit more comfortable.”

“Ah… I’m s-sorry, Mrs. Drake, b-but—” he stammered, just as a loud horn sounded. Turning to look at the exit ramp, he noticed that the dock was just starting to recede, but when he turned back to try to talk some sense into Sabrina, he found that she was waiting for him on the other side of the parking area, near some sort of stairwell. The noise was far too loud for him to communicate at such a distance; he wasn’t even sure that she could have heard him up close.

With little choice, he limped painfully after her, his mind whirling.

The steep, narrow stairway at least had handrails, which was the only reason he made it all the way up without slipping; by the time he emerged at the top, his back was screaming at him, and he felt dizzy enough to have to hang on while he got his legs back.

The first thing that hit him was the smell: freshly cooked food, tantalizing hints of everything from burgers and bacon to strawberries and pineapple to dark roast coffee and hot chocolate, along with ketchup and mustard, pickles and sauerkraut, and the sharp bite of onions in the air. Through the windows he could see out to the main deck, where some sort of party was going on, people in fancy clothes milling around with little plates of appetizers. The murmured conversations seemed pleasant enough, with plenty of smiles and laughs being shared amongst the guests; some were even starting to dance.

Sabrina returned, bearing a thick strand of pink and white flowers—a lei, not the fake plastic kind but actual flowers—and put it around Harold’s neck before he could think to protest. She smiled at him.

“I know it’s unexpected, but after everything you’ve been going through, it seemed to me that you needed a little breather, y’know? And since we wouldn’t even have a marriage left to celebrate if not for you, I figured it was fitting to invite you along… even if you’re the kind of workaholic who needs a little push to take a vacation now and then.”

“Workaholic—?” Harold said, eyebrows scrunching as he tried, desperately, to put together what the hell was going on.

“I don’t even know what you’re hiding from… running from, but… I know the feeling, believe me. Throwing yourself into your work because it’s easier than facing up to reality. And I don’t want to take that from you, I really don’t, it’s just… well… you helped us at a crucial time, and… I wanted to do something, some little thing, to help you back.”

The words, the concepts, they were striking close to home, but… she couldn’t possibly know enough about him to really understand that much, could she? They’d met the one time, a little over a year ago, and the Drakes had been arrested the same day. They’d served a few months in prison simply for the mayhem they’d caused… before getting free due to lack of proper evidence and an overworked justice system. How long had they been back on the streets, maybe a few months now? They hadn’t seemed like a continuing threat, and he had so many other matters to keep tabs on….

“Mrs. Drake,” Harold said slowly, “what are you even talking about?”

She sighed, fondly, and motioned out the door with one arm. “Mr. Crane… welcome to our anniversary cruise!”

“…What?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second part of this chapter should go up... before the end of February, that's about all I can reasonably assess at this point. This thing might well get uploaded out of order; we've got a final piece of art coming, and Lisagarland's chapter as well, but I don't know in which order we'll finish them. Guess we'll find out together when it happens.
> 
>  ** _So many_** thanks to Fringuello for getting her piece done in time; she's the only reason this managed to get started on Valentine's Day like we planned.


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